


The Daedra Went Down to Skyrim

by ConstantlyComic



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, In case the title didn't make that obvious, Inspired by The Devil Went Down to Georgia, lute-off, reference to Myths of Sheogorath, spoilers in the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 14:25:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6960682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantlyComic/pseuds/ConstantlyComic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For if you win you get this ancient lute that's made of bone<br/>But if you lose, ol' Vile gets your soul!"</p><p>A truly awful bard makes a wager with a Daedric Prince for the first lute ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Daedra Went Down to Skyrim

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a fun idea I had while listening to "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" on the radio. It just sounded kind of like something Clavicus Vile would do.

In the Fourth Era, a traveler walked into an inn, a lute strapped to his back. He approached the innkeeper and said, “I am a traveling bard. Might I earn my keep here tonight?” The innkeeper, who had experienced this kind of thing before, told the bard he was welcome to play, but whether he had to pay for his room depended entirely on his skill. 

 When the inn was full if travelers and locals looking for a drink, the minstrel removed the lute from his back and began to play. A hellish screeching cacophony came from the lute, causing everyone to stare in near-horror. No one in that inn had ever heard playing so bad. The bard did not earn his keep that night, but he did get the inn’s patrons to pay him to stop. 

 The next morning, before the minstrel left the inn, the innkeeper pulled him aside. 

 "I have never heard the lute played as horribly as you did last night,“ the innkeeper said, "How can you play like that and still call yourself a bard?” The bard smiled at the question. “The truth is,” he answered, “the fault lies entirely with my lute,” he gestured towards the offending instrument, “In fact, I came here in search of a better one.” Now, this confused the innkeeper, for he knew of no craftsmen or makers of instruments nearby, but he chose to make nothing of it and remained silent as the minstrel walked away. 

* * *

After the minstrel left the inn, he only stayed on the road for a short amount of time before he slipped off into the woods. He knew exactly where he was going. After some traveling, he reached the shrine. The minstrel stood before the statue of the horned boy and dog and said calmly, “I would like to make a deal.”

“Is that so?” a voice crooned from the shrine, “And what is it that you want?”

“I am a minstrel,” was the answer, spoken as calmly as if the speaker consorted with Daedra every day, “but I cannot play this lute.  Whenever I try, all I get is screeching.  I fear it must be cursed, and I thought perhaps you would be able to lift the curse.”

“I can do you one better,” the voice informed the minstrel, “For I happen to have in my possession the first ever lute, made by the Madgod himself.  It can be yours, should you wish it.”

“And the catch?”  The bard smirked, “I know of you, Lord Vile.  Your deals rarely turn out better for the mortals making them.”  He waited for a moment, then spoke again, “I would offer a deal of my own, hopefully to your liking.”

“This should be good.”  The voice from the altar almost sounded amused, “What is this deal you had in mind?”  The bard spread his arms as if performing, “A wager.  I win, I get your lute, no strings attached.  Or rather,” he added thoughtfully, “Only the strings a normal lute has attached.  I don’t want to have to restring it.  You win, we make a deal to your liking.  Perhaps you want to exchange the lute for my soul.  Perhaps you want to exchange your lute for my soul and the souls of all who hear me play.  Perhaps you want to send me home empty-handed.  You win, you get what you want.”

“And what would we be wagering on?”

“A lute-playing contest.  You on your lute against me on mine.”

Were Clavicus Vile at his full power, he would have smote this impudent mortal by now.  But unfortunately, he was without his dog Barbas and thus, without a large amount of his power.  He had been confined to this shrine for far too long and had grown bored, and this foolish minstrel was the most entertainment he had in ages.  So he decided to humor him.  The statue shined, and after a moment, the horned boy stood before the minstrel, no longer stone but flesh and bone.

“Very well,” the Daedra said, pulling an ancient lute from the air, “You will have your wager.”  The bard let out a cocky chuckle, “Then as the challenged, you play first.”

Clavicus Vile ran his fingers over the tendon-crafted strings of the lute and began to play.  He played well–someone with a mind for puns may say divinely–but even if he hadn’t, he was confident he would win.  For the lute was, as he had said, crafted by Sheogorath himself, made of human tendons.  Like anything associated with the Madgod, it had twists of its own–in this case, it would drive to madness anyone who listened to music played on it.  The minstrel had signed away his soul as soon as he had allowed the Daedra to play first.

He played for a few minutes before lowering the lute, staring into the face of his opponent.  But instead of showing any sort of mad behavior, the bard merely shrugged.

“Not bad,” he said, “but I believe it’s my turn now.”  And he raised his own lute.

It was obvious from the beginning that, while Clavicus Vile was a fair lute player, he was no match for this minstrel.  He began with a soft Breton lullaby, a tale of a lost king, then effortlessly transitioned into a stirring rendition of a patriotic tune popular in the taverns of Skyrim.  The minstrel’s fingers flew over the strings as he took his Daedric opponent on a musical tour of Tamriel, from Ashlander tribal songs to meditative drones of Alinor.  When he finished his last song–a stirring rendition of a song popular in Cyrodiil after the Oblivion Crisis–he tucked his lute under one arm and bowed with a flourish.

As much as Vile hated to admit it, even he could see he had lost this contest.  He threw the lute at the minstrel’s feet with a huffed, “Fine, take the damned thing,” and stepped back onto the altar, retaking his place in stone.  The lute hadn’t worked on this bard, but it would probably work on his audiences.  That had to count for something.  The blond-haired Bosmer bard bent down and picked up the lute, holding it over his shoulder, then turned on his heel and walked out of the cave.

* * *

“That went well,” the bard murmured to himself as he walked away, “It’s nice to have this back.”  He dissolved into butterflies as he strolled down the path, singing idly to himself.

_“And he played fire on the mountain, run boys run…”_

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, this particular Sheogorath is Ilbereth, my Bosmer HoK. If you want to find out more about him, as well as the rest of my personal Tamrielic hero-types, feel free to check out asktheheroesoftamriel.tumblr.com


End file.
